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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24180076">Our Ugly Truths</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/filthynebula/pseuds/filthynebula'>filthynebula</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Killing Eve (TV 2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, As well, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Slow Burn, also got some, and agent villanelle, like felix!!!!, more tags to come maybe??? idk, my boy!!!, other characters are in it that i don't feel like tagging rn, we got assassin eve</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 23:16:13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,494</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24180076</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/filthynebula/pseuds/filthynebula</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Eve is a hired assassin working for a shady organization. Villanelle is the agent determined to track her down. Their fascination with each other borders on obsession and the closer Villanelle gets to finding Eve, the more she finds her already fragile moral lines beginning to blur.</p><p>OR</p><p>A Role Reversal AU that has absolutely no business being this fun to write, featuring absolute asshole Villanelle and Unrestrained (summer fun) Eve.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>150</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. A Healthy Fascination</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hey prepare yourselves for a novel before the fic - just wanted to say hi and i hope y'all like this idea. It was inspired by jodiecomerturnedmebi 's role swap post on tumblr (which i would link if i could but i don't know how cause I'm dumb) and now here we are. </p><p>here's a peek inside my mind - i am trying to write eve as if she has become an unrestrained and more immoral version of herself due to Reasons That Will Be Explained later. i am tryna write villanelle as if her violence never came to light in the same way so now the worst of it hides just beneath the surface, and her Softness, as in canon, is best brought out by eve. she’s VERY MUCH still an asshole. i'm tryna keep them as in character while being kind of character by nature of this AU and here's hoping i struck a decent enough balance to make this fic palatable for y'all. think of it as an exploration of who they might’ve been had certain events not happened or happened at different times in their lives. </p><p>anyways thanks for coming to my ted talk, let’s get started!!!!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Villanelle is daydreaming. It’s something about women and Paris and freedom. Something incongruent with the life she lives now. But the daydream is nice.</p><p>It is shattered when a manila folder slaps onto her desk with a resounding thud. On its beige cover is a blood-red label that reads <em> Confidential - MI6 Approved Readers Only </em>. Below it, a name is written in messy cursive. </p><p><em> Nikolas Petromos </em>.</p><p>It means nothing to Villanelle. Even if it did, it would be inconsequential, since she is more preoccupied with the man who dropped it there, hovering over her desk like a caveman. He occupies her personal space with his oafish bearing and he drops folders in front of her like she is some kind of assistant.</p><p>She is unsurprised to see that it is Diego who’s towering over her. He is a brute and an idiot, and his moustache reminds her of a caterpillar. She wishes it was the very hungry kind so that it would chew through his face and burrow into his jaw. She wants to reach up and grab him by the collar of his too-tight button-up shirt. To pull him down and slam his face into the wood of her desk, and maybe hear his nose break. She wants to, badly; the craving itches between her shoulder blades and along the faint outlines of the veins in her wrists. But she cannot do these things.</p><p>Instead, when she looks up at Diego she settles for giving him one of her office-renowned icy glares, something that should make his balls shrivel up and his nipples invert. Unfortunately for Villanelle, Diego seems unfazed and continues what he had been doing moments earlier: smirking down at her and hoping for a reaction.</p><p>“Desk duty, how sad for you. Are you missing the action? I hear they haven’t even decided how long you’ll be stuck here. You must have been very-” he leans in, and Villanelle can smell the sweat beneath his cheap cologne, “-naughty.”</p><p>Oh, how she wishes she could wrap her fingers around his neck. She doesn’t, she can’t. It would be unprofessional, amongst other things. So instead she forces herself to keep a level stare and she gestures at the folder on her desk. “What the fuck is this?”</p><p>“Tch, a bit touchy today, are we?” Diego leans away from the desk and points a finger at the folder. Villanelle has an intrusive thought that tells her she should bite it off. “That is another report to be filed in Archives. Another string of murders solved, another killer done in, courtesy of me, personally,” he gloats.</p><p>Villanelle flicks the cover of the file open, idly scanning the first page. “It says here that he was killed by agents in Turkey. You are running the operation in Birmingham, and have been, for the past two months, have you not?”</p><p>Diego’s smug grin vanishes, replaced by a snarl. “Now listen here, you <em> bitch </em>-”</p><p>He is cut off by the appearance of a young woman walking through the doors of the office. Diego has always been weak for a pair of tits. He betrays himself, even now, and Villanelle delights in watching him ogle the newcomer, despite the fact that they are already all well acquainted with each other.</p><p>The woman is Nadia Kadomtseya. She is young and beautiful, timid and unobtrusive. How she has ended up working as an agent, Villanelle cannot quite understand. Villanelle knows Nadia, in the biblical sense, but Diego is unaware of that fact. The satisfaction that gives her is rich and honeyed as she watches Diego eye Nadia like the prey of his next hunt. </p><p>Very likely he will succeed. Nadia is sweet and easy. But she is far from hallowed ground, and Villanelle fights off a smirk at the thought that she beat Diego to it. Looking away from her colleagues, she brushes her fingers over the red label of the manila folder.</p><p>
  <em> MI6. </em>
</p><p>She had not been working there long, really. Maybe three years. She had been a quick learner, though, and had been a field operative after her first six months of training. She’d impressed MI6 brass when she’d been calm under pressure in Geneva, defusing a bomb that had been intended to blow up the WHO headquarters. She’d gained respect when she’d managed to cut short the rampage of a Hungarian extremist when she’d put a bullet through his head from 800 metres away, all while he’d been driving a stolen school bus full of children. </p><p>All of that acclaim and high esteem had been lost, though. Thrown aside because she had been reckless, impulsive, searching for-</p><p>“Villanelle?”</p><p>It is Nadia speaking. She has wandered up to Villanelle’s desk and she is looking between her and Diego as if she knows that he is trying to goad Villanelle into action. But Nadia, <em> sweet Nadia </em>, despite her nine confirmed kills, does not speak up to stop him. She just gives Villanelle a look like she’s pitying a lost puppy. Villanelle wants to snort. She is no puppy. She is a full-grown Doberman Pinscher and she is ready to sink her canines into- into-</p><p><em> No. </em>She grinds her teeth and surrenders.</p><p>“It’s nothing,” she huffs.</p><p>She refuses to look at Diego and absolutely despises looking at Nadia when she’s like this. That ends up being just fine because Diego turns and begins speaking to the other agent, prattling on about the status of his Birmingham operation, as though Nadia hasn’t been running operations in Istanbul and Tel Aviv for the past two years. Villanelle rolls her eyes and glances around the office space, trying to reduce her boiling blood to a simmer. </p><p>It is a boring office. She had decided that very early on. It’s in a poorly lit room with shabby grey walls and two narrow slits of windows that are too high up to look out of. The floor is carpeted. The desks are old, wooden things that would be nice if they didn’t seem to be on the verge of falling apart. Aside from Villanelle’s desk, there are five others in the room. Hers is the only one occupied. The other members of Archive Collections are probably living up to their name and are down somewhere in the dank, musty corridors of the MI6 basement, browsing through rows of shelves lined with dusty manila folders like the one on Villanelle’s desk. They seem to love it down there, fascinated by the saints and sinners of the past. For her part, Villanelle would much prefer to be in the present, except that the present is currently being held hostage by her godforsaken desk.</p><p>Her eyes travel to the cuts she’s made on the edge of it. Narrow lines marking the days like she is a prisoner in a cell. There are nineteen lines. She sighs and then realizes that Nadia and Diego have stopped talking. That is certainly more interesting than the office, and her desk, so she turns her attention back to them. She sees what has made them shut up.</p><p>Konstantin Vasiliev stands in the doorway, wearing an ill-fitting grey suit and leaning casually against the frame, chewing an apple with unbridled enthusiasm. Diego and Nadia have stopped talking because Konstantin is their superior, but they are also confused that he has come to Archives. Archives is not the place for agents, let alone the head of their department. Konstantin voices similar thoughts.</p><p>“Nadia. Diego. What are you doing down here?” He says it around half-chewed apple. His flat, disciplinary tone is belied by the mouth full of food. “Archives is not for field agents.”</p><p>Villanelle grinds her teeth. <em> She </em>is a field agent. She will be again, just as soon as she can figure out how to convince Konstantin and the higher-ups to let her back into action.</p><p>“I was dropping off a file,” Diego bites out. He likes Konstantin, but it grates on him to not be in charge. He has been working at MI6 for longer than Nadia and herself combined, but he has stalled in the ranks.</p><p>“And it would seem you have done an exemplary job of it,” Konstantin remarks. “So leave us.”</p><p>Diego frowns but doesn’t argue and heads for the door. Nadia should follow but Konstantin’s eyes have her pinned to the floor. He looks her up and down before shaking his head ruefully. “Agent Kadomtseya, I do not think you will find what you are looking for, down in this office.”</p><p>Nadia pales and ducks her head, embarrassed. Villanelle finds it amusing how easily Konstantin can humble the agents. She would have that power, too, if it weren’t for the accursed desk. Nadia flees the room without a backward glance at Villanelle.</p><p>And then it is just her and Konstantin. She raises her hands, palms up, in something approaching a shrug. “What, no harsh words for me?”</p><p>“I would have thought you had gotten your fill at the hearing last month.” He says it with a relaxed air, tossing his apple core in a bin before moving into the room like a prowling cat. Albeit, a large cat. Villanelle imagines a barrel-chested, pot-bellied mountain lion stalking its prey, and she wants to laugh. She holds it in only because she has been told that it is off-putting when she laughs at things that no one else is aware of.</p><p>Ignoring his comment, she feigns interest in the folder Diego had dropped on her desk. “I am very busy, Konstantin.”</p><p>He snorts. “I am sure. Who is that?” He nods at the folder.</p><p>“Nikolas Petromos. Apparently Diego took him down singlehandedly.”</p><p>“I thought he was killed by agents in Turkey.”</p><p>Villanelle shrugs, pretending ignorance. “I am just a desk clerk, Konstantin.” She waves her hand dismissively. “I cannot be expected to keep track of those details.”</p><p>Konstantin smiles as he reaches her desk and perches half on it like a father about to have a very important yet seemingly casual chat with his unruly child. “Are you sick of desk duty, Villanelle? It has only been…”</p><p>“Nineteen days. But who is counting?”</p><p>“Mm,” he hums like he had expected the response. “And are you bored?”</p><p>“Tragically.”</p><p>“Would you like to leave desk duty?”</p><p>Villanelle eyes him with suspicion. It’s not that she doesn’t trust him, it’s just that you don’t become the head of their super-secret spy department without breaking a few promises and stabbing a few backs. “You know I would, that is a silly question.”</p><p>Konstantin looks at her with calculating eyes, although she knows he tries to hide it behind a fatherly- no, grandfatherly, she decides, just to be spiteful- smile. But she is not a child. She watches him weigh and measure her on a set of imaginary scales. She doesn’t know the context of her judgement but he must be content with what he finds because he nods once and says, “I have a job for you.”</p><p>Villanelle arches an eyebrow. She wants to pretend to be disinterested, wants to pretend that archival desk duty is not the hellhole where dreams and talent come to die. She tries her best to fake it, as if she isn’t willing to kill for the chance to be in the field again.</p><p>“What is the job?” she asks. “Italian mob? Illegal arms dealer? Terrorist organization?” She doesn’t stop to breathe between her questions, continuing, “Where is it stationed? Budapest? No, Morocco? Hm… wait, it’s Barcelona, isn’t it? That would be excellent, I could buy Maria a plane ticket so that she could join me afterwards-”</p><p>Konstantin appears torn between laughing at her and scolding her. “No. Stop it. It is none of those things. And we both know you would not bring Maria.”</p><p>Villanelle frowns. “You don’t know that. I love her, why would I not take her on vacation?”</p><p>“You would only do it because that is how you believe relationships work, not because you actually want her there.” Konstantin waves his hands before Villanelle can argue. “Enough, enough. This is beside the point. The job is not a field operation. You would be consultant <em> only, </em>to a team of other MI6 members.”</p><p>Villanelle stops with her mouth open, the argument she was about to throw at him lost as she registers what he’s saying. “A consultant…”</p><p>“Yes,” he says, nodding. “The job goes like this: there is a woman killing high profile targets across Europe. We think she’s been active for two years-”</p><p>“-We?”</p><p>“-Shush. We have not been able to locate her. It would appear she is untraceable.”</p><p>Villanelle scoffs. “Then what use would I be?”</p><p>“Please, Villanelle, give yourself more credit.”</p><p>She rolls her eyes at him and continues on. “What makes you think that I am the best one to send after her? Send Diego.” She only says it because it is ludicrous, and they both know it, but that is the game she likes to play.</p><p>Konstantin holds back a sigh with visible effort. “First of all, you are not being sent. You are still on desk duty. The desk is merely being moved out of Archives. As I said, you would consult and offer insight only-“</p><p>“Psh.”</p><p>“-Second, you seem to... know a lot about female assassins.” He says this while staring at his nails as if suddenly fascinated by the state of his cuticles. </p><p>Villanelle knows why he avoids her eyes as he says this. He does not want to make an obvious reminder of why she is on desk duty in the first place, but the implication is clear. It’s clearer <em> because </em>he avoids it. Still, she ignores it.</p><p>“I have a healthy fascination, nothing more.” </p><p>Konstantin snorts in response.</p><p>Leaning back, Villanelle wheels her chair from side to side, wanting to appear bored. Konstantin doesn’t buy it as he pulls a photograph from the inner chest pocket of his suit jacket. He slides the photo across the desk to her. She refuses to pick it up but it doesn’t matter, she can see it clearly from where she sits, reclined in her office chair.</p><p>The photo shows a man with sandy blonde hair seated in a chair much like the one Villanelle is sitting in. His hands are bound to the armrests with a thick rope but the bonds are not overly tight. His head lolls forwards bonelessly because, evidently, he is dead. A trail of leftover bile creeps from the corner of his mouth down to his chin, and a small puddle of it has fallen onto the desk below him. Villanelle cannot make out the other details of his face since he is giving the floor a dead-eyed stare, but she can see the bullet hole in the middle of his forehead. She thinks it looks nice. Neat. She pushes the thought away.</p><p>“How did he die?” she asks.</p><p>“Isn’t it obvious?” Konstantin is baiting her and she knows it. “He was shot in the head.”</p><p>Villanelle doesn’t bother looking at him, she knows what he’s trying to do. She plays along.</p><p>“The bile coming from his mouth suggests poison, along with the colouration of his lips. There are no signs of struggle or bruising surrounding the bonds on his wrists, which means he was dead before he was put into the chair. But it is clear that he was shot in the chair because of the blood spatter pattern on the wall behind him, here-” Villanelle leans forward and highlights the area with her finger, even though she suspects Konstantin has already seen all of this himself. “So he was poisoned and then shot once in the head for, what? Confirmation? Dramatic flair?”</p><p>“That is what I’m hoping you will tell me,” Konstantin replies before reaching across the desk and taking the photo back from her. Villanelle lets her finger slip along its edge as he does so, resisting the urge to grab at it. As he replaces it in his inner pocket, he asks, “Well, your thoughts?”</p><p>She is intrigued, that much is certain. The double kill is fascinating, not to mention she was interested from the moment that Konstantin mentioned that it was a woman. And the chance to leave Archives is very, very tantalizing. Still, she does not want to appear overeager. She wants to be hard to get, and who knows, maybe desk duty isn’t that bad anyway. </p><p>Really, the big catch is that she does not like the idea of joining a team. She decides to tell him as much.</p><p>“Why should I join a team? I do not like teams.”</p><p>Konstantin frowns at her. “I am making a team a requirement of the file. I do not want any lone wolf going off and thinking they can handle this woman themselves.” He eyes her pointedly as he says this.</p><p>Villanelle pouts. “But Konstantin, you know I do not play well with others.”</p><p>At this, Konstantin smiles and pats his chest over the spot where the photo is hidden. “Maybe not, but neither does she. Look, you are thinking like her already."</p><hr/><p>Eve watches with an almost perverse satisfaction as Gian Bodecci takes a bite of his expensive lunchtime meal. He sits on the patio of a fancy restaurant in Siena, dining alone, unaware he is being watched. He takes another bite. It is some kind of pasta, although Eve hadn’t bothered to pay attention to which when she’d been in the kitchen some twenty minutes prior. A long and wavy noodle suspends messily from his fork. For all his power and influence, Gian Bodecci is a messy eater. What Eve thinks is Alfredo sauce spatters against the napkin he’s tucked into the collar of his shirt.</p><p>He is an aging Italian man with salt and pepper hair and broad shoulders. He is built like a bull, and was probably as strong as one in his youth. Now, though, it is extra weight. Eve nods to herself. It is good to know that she won’t have a runner.</p><p>As is the nature of her business, she doesn’t know <em> why </em> Bodecci has been chosen, but looking at him, watching him eat, Eve has a feeling it’s because he is a pig of some kind. She tells herself that he is a brute who probably hits his wife and yells at his kids. He probably has three younger women he rotates through as mistresses, and he probably made all of his money off selling counterfeit medications to elderly people and committing arson on the weekends.</p><p>Eve nods as her image of the man takes shape. She lets it settle over her view of him like a burial shroud, sealing his fate, secure in her knowledge that she’s rationalized what she’s about to do. And yet, her fingers itch for a glass, a tumbler to swirl, ice to clink and knock about as gin sloshes around inside. </p><p><em> Later, </em> she tells herself. <em> Later. </em></p><p>Eve sits in a cafe across the street from Bodecci’s restaurant. She sips at her triple shot cappuccino and hums in the back of her throat when its taste meets her tongue. For too long, she had walked through her life in a pathetic kind of daze, ignorant of the things that could make her feel so good. Now she is a sybarite, a pleasure-seeker, delighting in the things that had been denied her for so long. </p><p>Oh, a cappuccino was always allowed, before. But consumed in a rush, or else purchased for no other reason than to introduce caffeine to her bloodstream. The freedom to savour its taste, to relish the smooth and bitter way it travels along her tongue before she swallows? That freedom is new.</p><p>Revelling in the experience, Eve smiles to herself and then returns to the task at hand. Watching Bodecci. He is still eating but he is nearly done. Eve glances at her watch. Another reminder of how far she’s come, it is a Vacheron Constantin with a glossy, green leather band and intricate, dark dial, and it cost just over fifteen thousand pounds. Eve feels a flutter of pride at the sight of it. It reads 12:56pm.</p><p>She tsks as she finishes the rest of her cappuccino, not able to savour it as much as she would like, before she gathers up her coat and gets up from her table. The jacket, unlike her watch, is a simple and inelegant thing, dark blue and nylon like a raincoat, but it has good reason to be so. She heads for the door, sparing a smile for the barista at the counter before heading out into the Italian sun. She puts her jacket on and is immediately glad that she won’t be wearing it for very long. The heat of the day beats against her back as she looks for her mark. </p><p>His table is empty on the patio across the street and Eve almost curses out loud before she sees him leaning over the servers’ podium near the door, leering at some poor woman who clearly wants to escape from his presence. Eve grinds her teeth but forces herself to wait. </p><p>It is blessedly quick, whatever conversation Bodecci is trying to have with the woman, and he turns and heads for the street. Eve watches him and then checks the time again. 1:03. She crosses the empty roadway before falling in step a short distance behind the man. </p><p>By her reckoning, she only has to wait a few minutes, and she scans the area ahead for what she needs. A short distance away is a narrow alley. That will be perfect.</p><p>The sidewalk itself is not overly busy, which is exactly how she likes it. Too empty and she would stand out, too busy and there would be too many sets of wandering eyes to catch a glimpse of her face. A tick from her former life, a flash of insecurity, and she thinks about pulling up the hood of her jacket. She manages to ignore the reflex. It would only make her stand out on the cloudless, sunny day.</p><p>Eve checks the time again. 1:05. They are approaching the alleyway and, like clockwork, Bodecci suddenly stumbles a bit and clenches at his chest. No one else on the street really notices, but Eve comes up behind him and rests her hand on his shoulder compassionately. </p><p>“Oh my, are you alright?” she asks, in English, because no matter how late her rebirth had come, learning new languages would always be hard. She knows the basics of a few and that has to suffice.</p><p>Bodecci either doesn’t understand her or doesn’t care to, because he shakes his head aggressively and tries to continue forward. He stumbles again, though, and Eve places her other hand on his wrist, guiding him towards the mouth of the alley.</p><p>“Shh, it’s alright. You just need a break from the sun is all.” She says it in the off chance that he does understand. He frowns at her and that doesn’t tell her much so she just continues on steering him where she wants him to go.</p><p>He begins to walk like he is in a daze, allowing himself to be led, and that’s how Eve knows the poison is working. He trips and staggers a few more times but quickly enough they have made it into the alleyway. Once they’re out of sight of the main street, Eve lets go of Bodecci and he falls to his knees in the muck, grasping at his jacket now as if trying to pry it off. His breathing is laboured and Eve is already forgotten to him as he fights for his life.</p><p>He will lose, though, and Eve pulls out her gun in anticipation of the moment when he does. She retrieves the silencer from her jacket pocket and screws it onto the mouth of her pistol unhurriedly. She knows the poison can take a while, sometimes.</p><p>But then Bodecci gets loud in his death throes. He wheezes and hacks and Eve curses under her breath. Time to speed things up, then. She raises her gun and points it at the back of his head. She aims, closes her eyes, thinks of a pig, and fires twice. Two shots to the back of the head have shut Gian Bodecci up lightning quick. His body slumps forward onto cobblestones littered with cigarette butts. Eve lowers her arm.</p><p>The spreading pool of blood and double bullet wounds in his skull are evidence enough that her job is done. The sight of the cigarettes reminds her of a craving, and she pulls a pack out from her pocket and lights one. She knows she shouldn’t dawdle at the scene of the crime, but she permits herself one long drag before she leaves. She briefly considers flicking the cigarette onto Bodecci’s body, because surely he had this coming, but she resists. She hasn’t come this far just to leave blatant DNA evidence on her target.</p><p>She leaves the alleyway and crosses the street. After one block, she takes off the oppressive jacket and shoves it in a trash bin. After two blocks, she turns her face towards the sky, basks in the sunlight, thinks about the gin waiting for her at home, and smiles.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thoughts? questions? comments? concerns?</p><p>(also sorry if the writing felt rigid, i promise it loosens up as we progress, im just not used to writing in present tense)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. This Lifestyle Suits You</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>i loved the responses to chapter 1 that were basically like 'im cautiously intrigued in this'. me too, fam, me too. Cliff's Edge is my baby and this is... an exercise in something, I just haven't quite figured out what yet. Pls enjoy.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Eve is holding her letter opener over the muscle of her bare thigh when Carolyn walks into her flat.</p>
<p>The letter opener is expensive. Its handle is polished black onyx and the blade is titanium. It used to be dull, because it doesn’t take much to cut open a letter, but Eve has taken it up one herself to sharpen its point to needle-like severity, and she suspends it over her leg as if waiting for something to burst forth from her skin. She’s in an old t-shirt and shorts, remnants of her past life that she hadn’t felt the need to purge along with everything else because the comfort she takes in wearing them is its own kind of luxury. She’s sitting on her couch, feet up on the coffee table. When Carolyn comes in she doesn’t look up at the intrusion. She acknowledges her presence though.</p>
<p>“How hard do you think I’d have to stab this thing to hit my femoral artery?” </p>
<p>Carolyn doesn’t look away from her phone when she replies. “Hard enough to penetrate to a depth of about one inch, although I really wish you wouldn’t do that on the Koket, you know how I love that piece. I would hate to see it stained.”</p>
<p>Eve snorts. Carolyn, unflappable as ever, barging in unannounced as always. </p>
<p>“So you’re saying I should do this in the bathtub?”</p>
<p>Carolyn sighs. “If you must, Eve. Be sure to do it with gusto.”</p>
<p>Eve frowns and tosses the letter opener aside. “Aren’t you supposed to show a little more concern when your employee has such blatant disregard for her own life?”</p>
<p>Carolyn looks up from her phone, finally, and levels an amused stare at Eve. “Except that I know very well how much you enjoy this life, Eve. I believe I rescued you from the old one, remember?”</p>
<p>“‘Rescued’ is a bit extreme,” Eve grumbles, pushing herself off of the couch and casting her attention around the room.</p>
<p>She does appreciate what Carolyn did for her, of course. It’s what allowed her to have all of this.</p>
<p>The apartment is large. Open-concept and with high ceilings, a kitchen occupies the corner nearest to the door, where Carolyn has perched at Eve’s kitchen-bar counter, back to tapping at her phone. The sitting area, where Eve is, occupies most of the room, with the Koket couch and chair and coffee table that all probably cost more than Eve’s first car. Off a short way is Eve’s bedroom, with a balcony and a king-sized bed that she revels in every night. Across the outer wall run several floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook a narrow street and one of Amsterdam’s well-known canals. She likes to admire that view often, watching low, wide boats lazily drift by. Pleasant as it all is, though, it is hardly her favourite apartment. </p>
<p>Carolyn has several at her disposal, and Eve is partial to the one in Stockholm, although it is less frequently visited because, for whatever reason, shady businessmen, mafia members, and political targets tend to concentrate around more of Central Europe. Eve finds most of her business of the past two years has been done on a haphazard rotation between France, Germany, Spain, and Italy, although the odd job will take her to Belgium or the Netherlands or even, on rare occasions, back home, to London.</p>
<p>Of course, it was hardly ever a home, really. Eve is such a conglomerate of cultural identities that she’s not sure which one to pay homage to on any given day. The daughter of Korean immigrants who moved to America when she was little, the former wife of a Polish-Brit whom she settled down with for a while in the UK, and now a globe-trotting killer-for-hire who has lived in six countries over the past two years.</p>
<p>If she still had a single passport (rather than several under various names), it would be a tapestry of places her 20-year-old self had never imagined she’d go.</p>
<p>Her 20-year-old self probably didn’t imagine the type of work that she’d be doing while at it, but that doesn’t bother Eve much at all anymore. Killing people no longer seems like such a moral red line. It is more of a foggy, grey space that she navigates through careful rationalization and not-insignificant amounts of alcohol. It isn’t like she has a problem, it’s simply a vice. A rather minor one, she’d say, given that her day job is murder.</p>
<p>Thinking about work, Eve turns her attention back to Caroyln. Her ‘handler’, as she’s called, Carolyn is a tall and imposing woman whose only job, so far as Eve can tell, is to pop in unannounced at odd times of day and give her either her next job or her next paycheck. It will be a postcard with her next location and target, or else a fat stack of cash in a brown, nondescript envelope. Eve wonders what today will bring. </p>
<p>Carolyn stands at the high counter at the edge of the kitchen. With her height, it is just the right level that she can comfortably lean her forearms on its top and continue doing whatever it is she is doing on her phone. Eve clears her throat loudly.</p>
<p>Carolyn doesn’t move.</p>
<p>Eve clears her throat again, more aggressive this time, and one of Carolyn’s eyebrows arches slightly upwards in response. </p>
<p><em> Victory, </em> Eve thinks.</p>
<p>“Yes, Eve?”</p>
<p>“I’m just wondering what you’re doing in my apartment if you’re not even going to talk to me.”</p>
<p>“It is <em>my </em>apartment, Eve,” Carolyn responds breezily, unfazed, but she does put her phone down. She turns to look at Eve. “I’ve brought you your next job.”</p>
<p>Ah. A postcard day, then.</p>
<p>Eve hums and walks to the kitchen, throwing open her fridge and reaching for a bottle of beer. “Want one?”</p>
<p>Carolyn's eyes have followed her movement around the room, and the corner of her mouth quirks a little at the question. Eve knows that means that Carolyn is smiling, inside. “Why not? Thank you, Eve. What is it?”</p>
<p>“A lager.”</p>
<p>“Hm. They don’t have much character, lagers,” Carolyn says, accepting the bottle as Eve passes it to her over the counter. “But they sure are easy to drink, aren’t they?” She pops the cap, tips the drink back, and takes a long pull. </p>
<p>Eve smiles around the mouth of her own bottle. “I have other liquor for ‘character’. These are just the aperitif to the aperitif.”</p>
<p>Carolyn, surprisingly, does smile at that as she lowers her bottle back to the table. “This lifestyle suits you, Eve.”</p>
<p>“It’s alright,” Eve concedes. She’s in a good mood today. Sometimes she argues with Carolyn when she comes by. Today is not a day for fights. “I’ve learned not to ask as many questions about the job as I used to.”</p>
<p>“A wise decision.” This time, Carolyn levels a stare at her with no hint of a smile on her lips. Eve tries not to let it affect her but Carolyn can be rather severe, at times. Eve decides it is time to change topics slightly.</p>
<p>“You have a new job for me?”</p>
<p>“Mm, yes.” Carolyn says it as though it had slipped her mind, this thing that is the entire purpose for her being in the apartment in the first place, and Eve doesn’t buy it for a second. She doesn’t say anything, though, because if she’s learned anything in the past two years, aside from basic chemistry, a smattering of languages, and how to use firearms, it is self-preservation. For the most part, Eve likes her new life, and she’s not about to give it up for something as fleeting as curiosity. </p>
<p>Yes, her 20-year-old self, with her inquisitive nature and thirst for knowledge, would hardly know what to make of herself now. Hell, her self from two years ago wouldn’t know either. </p>
<p>While Eve has been lost in thought, Carolyn has pulled a postcard out from her handbag. She slides it across the table to Eve. Eve recognizes the photo easily and has no need for the large, typewriter font that stretches along the bottom.</p>
<p>“London.”</p>
<p>“Think of it as a visit home,” Carolyn tells her, eyes glancing at her phone as if she is already bored of Eve’s company. </p>
<p>“For you and me, both,” Eve replies, hardly paying attention to the woman across from her as she reaches out and takes the postcard.</p>
<p>Carolyn sips at her drink again while Eve studies the back. A name is printed in neat handwriting, along with an address for the target’s place of work. Not that they would suggest that she kill the mark there. It is merely a starting point for her, a little nudge from administration so that she doesn’t have to do absolutely <em>everything </em>by herself.</p>
<p>“Thomas Gillpen,” Eve reads aloud. She doesn’t ask who he is or what he’s done to draw the attention of the organization that she works for. She learned to stop asking those kinds of questions very, very early on. Instead, she commits the name and address to memory and wonders if there will be a convenient way to work poison into this one.</p>
<p>She prefers poison because, on the outside at least, it is clean. On the inside, it wreaks havoc, but not where she can see it. She doesn’t like to make a mess. A messy death is… well, she tries not to think about axes and pitchforks and the sound of tissues squelching as they are sliced apart.</p>
<p>So yes, poison is her preference. Guns aren’t so bad either.</p>
<p>As if reading her mind, Carolyn addresses her again. “Oh, and Eve? They want you to switch it up this time. The past two have been this poison-gunshot combination you seem fond of, but they are worried about you becoming too... formulaic, shall we say?”</p>
<p>Eve’s forehead creases as she frowns. “Is there something in particular they do want?”</p>
<p>At this, Caroyln shrugs and takes another long pull from the bottle. When she puts it down, she swallows and gives Eve an amused look. “No, aside from that directive, it is entirely up to you.”</p>
<hr/>
<p>Villanelle strides the long hallways of the fifth floor of MI6 headquarters with her head held high and a victorious smile painted across her lips. Her arch-nemesis, the archival desk, is three floors below her and already torturing some other poor soul unlucky enough to have been assigned there. Villanelle is free. She feels like she has walked out of the gates of a prison and into a new lease on life.</p>
<p>It is all very dramatic, of course, but why go through life as anything but? That would simply be too boring.</p>
<p>She struts along the hall and basks in the daylight that breaches through large windows along the way. The fifth floor is where things happen, she can feel it. This is where she will reassert herself as a prime field agent. Provided everything goes well with this file, she should be back to running ops in no time. Scanning the rooms she passes by, Villanelle sees the one she’s looking for and angles in, hardly slowing as she enters and quickly taking in her surroundings.</p>
<p>The room is a standard conference room, with a large table and empty walls for presentations. The wall behind the head of the table displays a detailed map of Europe, with pins, string, and papers scattered across it. Villanelle intends to check it out, later, when she is not being stared at by the other occupants of the room.</p>
<p>There are four other people, three of them seated, and they all turned to look at her when she arrived. They must be eager to get started. She’s only a few minutes late to their meeting, hardly anything to be scolded over. Still, Konstantin, who is standing at the head of the table, shakes his head to himself as he sees her walk in.</p>
<p>“Nice of you to join us, Villanelle.”</p>
<p>“I did not join this <em>team </em>-” she says the word with all the disdain it deserves, “-just for you to be rude to me, Konstantin. I am, what, five minutes late?”</p>
<p>Konstantin doesn’t argue, he simply inclines his head towards an empty seat, which she takes. In front of each person is a hardcopy of the presumed assassin’s file and some pens and pencils. Villanelle leans back and crosses her legs. Rather than look through the folder, she takes stock of her teammates to get a sense of who she’ll be working with.</p>
<p>The first one to catch her attention is the one she already knew would be there. Nadia sits across the table from Villanelle, blushing as she smiles shyly at her. Honestly, Villanelle really cannot understand how this woman kills people for a living.</p>
<p>Well, they do other things too, like espionage and security details and attending lavish events where they pretend to be other people. The lifestyle suits Villanelle. She hasn’t figured out yet how it suits Nadia.</p>
<p>Villanelle was the one who made sure Nadia was put on the team. After she had whined and complained about having to join one, Konstantin had taken pity on her and said that she could choose one member to add. Nadia had been the obvious pick, for two reasons: she really was a skilled agent, when she wasn’t pining over Villanelle, and secondly, Nadia’s placement on the team would really piss off Diego. The thought of his slimy moustache trembling with rage fills Villanelle with joy.</p>
<p>The seat next to Nadia is occupied by a young man that Villanelle wouldn’t have thought to be much older than eighteen. He is short, a bit scrawny, and he reeks of enthusiasm. And he was an <em>agent? </em></p>
<p>“Hey, you,” she nods at the kid. “You must be at least this tall to ride the ride.” She holds her hand level with the top of her head and, being a head taller than the boy, she smirks at him.</p>
<p>The kid opens his mouth to say something, a frown on his face, when Konstantin interrupts. “Hey, be nice. This is Felix. He is fresh out of training.”</p>
<p>Villanelle’s jaw drops. “You put a <em> rookie </em>on this file? I thought you said it was important.”</p>
<p>Konstantin sighs. When he doesn’t move to say anything else, Villanelle takes in the last figure in the room, sitting on the opposite end of the table from Konstantin. With large shoulders, receding red hair, and a face that always reminds her of a potato, Villanelle recognizes the man who has been gunning for Konstantin’s job for the past five years.</p>
<p>“Hello, Raymond.” She is the epitome of politeness. Inside her somewhere, there is an instinct screaming at her to take the pencil from the table and stab it through his eye. </p>
<p>“Hello, Ms. Astankova,” Raymond replies, nodding his head at her with an arrogance that could match her own. Only she knows that hers is less the grimy, scumbag kind and more of the elegant, superior kind. It irritates her that he doesn’t call her <em> Agent</em>, though, and without thinking, she clenches her hand into a fist. She is glad it is the hand that is resting on her thigh, underneath the table, and not the one in plain view. Although that one fiddles with a pencil, and she’s not entirely sure that she trusts that either.</p>
<p>“So,” Konstantin’s voice cuts through the room. “We are ready to begin, yes?”</p>
<p>So this is her team. A boy who looks young enough to be in grade school, a man she would gladly run over with a dump truck, and a woman who is ruthless in the field, unless the field is Villanelle, in which case Nadia lets herself be led and commanded and bossed around. Villanelle remembers what it was like to fuck her; she is eager to please and easy to control.</p>
<p>At least she has Nadia, then. The boy, Felix, will have to prove himself. Raymond, she will try her best to ignore for the duration of their time together.</p>
<p>No one speaks up so Konstantin clears his throat and begins. “Two years ago, a British arms dealer was found dead in a hotel in Rouen while on his way to visit the Normandy beaches.”</p>
<p>“Why are his vacation plans relevant?” </p>
<p>That is Raymond. Villanelle hates that she was going to ask the same question.</p>
<p>“They are not. I just thought it would be fun to mention. It is humanizing, no?” Konstantin grins cheekily like this is all some big joke and not an investigation into probable assassinations. He continues. “The man was smothered in his sleep, but the autopsy reports also showed that he had been drugged beforehand.”</p>
<p>“That would make it easier to… subdue him.” </p>
<p>It is Nadia who offers that input. Villanelle thinks it is cute that she says ‘subdue’ and not ‘murder’ while referring to asphyxiation. </p>
<p>“The drug was oxycodone and there was enough in his body to spark an overdose.”</p>
<p>“It was like a double kill then?” Villanelle asks, and Konstantin nods.</p>
<p>“Three months later, a charity organizer was killed with a lethal dose of nitrous oxide during a routine dental appointment. Her stomach contents also contained cyanide.”</p>
<p>Villanelle uncrosses her legs and leans forward, propping her elbows up on the table. This is new information and she is very, very interested. Of course, these kills were probably outlined in some form in the file that she hasn’t read yet. She was never very good at homework.</p>
<p>“Several months after that, the CEO of a booming tech start-up was reported missing. A week later, his body was found in the Thames. A noose attached to a cinderblock had been tied around his neck.”</p>
<p>“So he was strangled <em> and </em> drowned!” Felix exclaims. Villanelle exercises superhuman effort in order not to roll her eyes because, duh.</p>
<p>“Sharp kid,” Raymond chuckles. Felix beams as if the compliment had been sincere. Villanelle almost pities him.</p>
<p>“Yes, so you see the pattern,” Konstantin says, nodding, as he moves to the board along the wall behind him that has a map of Europe and all the kills connected to the case. “However, it gets tricky. These kills-” he points to several green pushpins, “-are the ‘doubles’. But these-” he points to a smattering of blue pins, “-are not. They are suspected to be by the same killer, though.”</p>
<p>Villanelle scans the map from her seat. There are eight green pushpins dotted around Central Europe. There are nearly twice as many blue ones. </p>
<p>Nadia has opened the folder in front of her and is looking through the file. She doesn’t glance up when she asks, “What makes you believe it is a woman?”</p>
<p>“Hm?” The question catches Konstantin off guard. He must have been expecting more questions about the murders themselves. Before he can reply, Villanelle cuts in.</p>
<p>“It is in the details.” She reaches across the table and points at the page Nadia is reading. It is a summary of the charity organizer’s death. “A woman is murdered in a dental office in the middle of the day. By who? Who would be able to have easy access to the office, to the equipment, without raising alarm?”</p>
<p>Nadia frowns. “A man could still do that.”</p>
<p>“Yes, but the woman in the chair did not struggle or raise any alarm-” Villanelle doesn’t <em>know </em>this, exactly, but she assumes as much, and when no one contradicts her, she knows she has assumed correctly. “So it was either someone she recognized or someone she trusted. She would be less likely to feel threatened by an unfamiliar woman than an unfamiliar man. That is just part of the female experience.”</p>
<p>Raymond snorts. Villanelle ignores him and continues on. “The murder in Rouen was done by drugging a man and smothering him in his sleep. Smothering him would have been enough, except that if he struggled, a woman runs the greater risk of being unable to hold him down. By drugging him beforehand, she ensures that he will be, how did you say, Nadia, ‘easier to subdue’?”</p>
<p>Nadia reddens but Villanelle flashes her a charming grin to soothe her embarrassment. It is probably too close to something flirtatious, especially for their office setting, but Villanelle doesn’t find it in herself to care. She is on a roll, ego soaring, and what harm could one smile do?</p>
<p>She forgets to remind herself that she is in a committed relationship. She’ll remember later, as always. </p>
<p>Before she can get too sidetracked, she flips the page of Nadia’s file, turning to the murder in the Thames. “My guess is that there were no signs of a struggle on this man either...” She says it slowly, allowing Konstantin to speak up if needed, but when he remains silent, she knows she is right once again. “And yet, he was fitted with a noose and somehow tossed into the water. So he must’ve been unconscious beforehand. Again, he would be easier to manage that way, for someone without the physical size to wrestle with him.”</p>
<p>“But I am small,” Felix pipes up, and Villanelle grinds her teeth at his perky attitude and the way he derails her perfect monologue. “If it were me, I would knock someone out first too.”</p>
<p>Villanelle cuts him off before he can string together more stupid and meaningless words. “You are forgetting the dentist’s office, the point about a woman being less threatening.”</p>
<p>Felix cocks his head to the side. “But men are not <em> always </em> threatening.”</p>
<p>“You’re right,” Villanelle nods. “You are the least threatening man I have ever seen.”</p>
<p>“Hey!”</p>
<p>“Enough!” Konstantin raises his voice. “If you are going to behave like bickering children, I will remove you from this operation.”</p>
<p>Villanelle resists the urge to pout. It would only make her seem childish. “Fine. But the last point I was going to make was about the-”</p>
<p>“The use of poisons and toxic substances.” It is Raymond who interrupts her this time. “Women are seven times more likely to poison their victims than men are.” He is leaning back in his chair, surveying the others with a haughty expression. His eyes find Villanelle’s as he waits to see how she’ll respond to his stealing of her thunder.</p>
<p>She doesn’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead, she waves her hand in his direction as if to agree with him. “Precisely.”</p>
<p>Felix looks thoughtful as he takes in the information. Nadia is nodding as she glances back down at the file. At Villanelle’s hand still lingering across the table. Villanelle pulls it back slowly and delights in the way Nadia’s eyes follow the movement. </p>
<p>She forgets, again, about Maria.</p>
<p>Konstantin opens his mouth, probably intending to go back to the story of those blue pushpins and why they are likely still the same murderer even if they are not the same method, when his cell phone rings.</p>
<p>“Shit,” he curses, before fishing in his jacket pocket and pulling out his phone. “Just a moment.” He ducks into the hallway.</p>
<p>There is a beat of awkward silence at the table before Raymond addresses Felix. “So, you must be what, fifteen?”</p>
<p>Villanelle would laugh but her pride forbids it. She does not like Raymond. The instinct to attack gnaws at her from within. </p>
<p>In an effort to escape the conversation, she pushes back from the table and goes to look at the map on the wall in greater detail. The green and blue pins are scattered haphazardly; there is no pattern to be discerned from their geography. Villanelle spots the pushpin and corresponding casefile that details the same murder Konstantin had first used to entice her into joining the investigation. The pin is stabbed into the circular icon for Berlin. She skims by it, uninterested. Then, she spots a green pin that is attached by string to a paper that summarizes a murder that Konstantin hasn’t mentioned yet. It happened in Siena, only a few weeks ago.</p>
<p>She scans the most important information. The victim was Gian Bodecci, 67 years old, former mafia boss. He was found in an alley with two bullet wounds in the back of his head and a stomach full of strychnine and barely-digested pasta. As with the rest of the cases, no witnesses, despite the fact that he was shot practically in broad daylight.</p>
<p>Villanelle concedes that this woman is good at her job. And she does assume that it is a job. The murders are too sporadic and spread out to be the work of a serial killer with a specific M.O. Instead, she thinks it’s far more likely that this woman is on someone’s payroll. Now <em>that </em>would be an interesting day job. Far better than desk duty.</p>
<p>Her thoughts are interrupted by Konstantin poking his head back into the room. “Everyone pack up, we are leaving in five minutes.”</p>
<p>“Leaving?” Felix turns around in his seat, confused. “Leaving for where?”</p>
<p>“The Jubilee Gardens-”</p>
<p>“That’s just up the road,” Nadia interjects, uselessly. </p>
<p>“Yes, yes,” Konstantin waves his hand at her and she blushes again. Honestly, Villanelle thinks as she glances at Nadia, it’s a bit ridiculous how easy it is to fluster her. Konstantin continues. “There’s been another murder, they think it’s our woman.”</p>
<p>Villanelle’s head snaps to him. “Now?”</p>
<p>“Yes, now!” He barks. “Grab your things, I said. We are leaving.”</p>
<p>Villanelle’s mouth splits into a wide grin. As she takes a final glance at the map along the wall, she vows to thank the unnamed assassin for ensuring that Konstantin's promise of 'desk duty only' did not last very long at all.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>guys, i keep track of how many words per chapter eve gets versus villanelle and i promise 3 and 4 feature some more eve time.</p>
<p>also, rip Felix, you were taken from us too soon.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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